The Nature of Suffering
by marine cathedral
Summary: Poor Pansy Parkinson, left out in the cold after the Battle of Hogwarts, suffers illicit affairs, borderline poverty, Draco's arrogance, irritating customers, postwar malaise, and the unnerving attentions of the Boy Who Lived.
1. Chapter 1

The Nature of Suffering

One

_So then love walked up to like  
>And said, I know that you don't like me much<br>Let's go for a ride_  
>— Tori Amos, "Cooling"<p>

—

It's a fall like any other, though the weather is chillier than she prefers. That certain something is in the air, and as she sweeps the front steps of Twilfit & Tattings, preparing for the rush of Saturday shoppers—mostly mothers relieved of their rambunctious children—she inhales deeply. There it is: a faint apple-cinnamon spice, from the bakery a couple of doors down. It is mixed with wood smoke, the grimy smell of wet cobblestones, and that certain indefinable tingle. The first of September is a good time of year, even when one takes the unpredictable weather into account.

Somewhere nearby, she thinks, the Hogwarts Express will pull into the station at Kings Cross. Children will wake, probably the first time they have awoken so early all summer; trunks will be double-checked; last-minute plans and contingencies will be made. Then, an interminable train ride later, the school term will commence, in the happiest place and time of those children's lives.

In the Parkinson household, the morning of September first had a strictly delineated routine; nothing was left to chance. She woke early, bathed, and ate breakfast with her father, while the house elves checked her luggage, slipped tiny, immaculately-wrapped confections into her cloak, and made brave attempts at catching her cat, Mnemosyne. After breakfast, clad in her plush, quilted bathrobe, she made her way upstairs, dressing in the stiff, clean components of her uniform. The roomy town car, with an extra spell or two for comfort, cleanliness, and speed, left promptly at ten.

She was not sorry to see the back of it.

Now, though, her mind is several miles away, and the broom glides with uneven strokes across the front steps. As senior shopgirl, she really has no business doing the menial tasks. Her place is behind the register, or helping Mr Twilfit with bigger decisions than how to position the mannequin that greets and bids goodbye to the patrons. However, Anna, the newest hire, is late, doubtless sleeping off a night of carousing with her latest fling, and the steps must be swept. She could have charmed the broom, of course, but that Hogwarts scent in the air has softened her mind, it seems.

The morning dawdles, bathed in uncertain light from an overcast sky. She is anxious, but dares not let it show, as she wraps purchases with tissue paper and places them in embossed packages, hands mostly steady as she exchanges galleons for knuts and sickles, fills out charge account sheets, to be taken to Gringotts, later. Business is picking up, these days. The _Daily Prophet_ is running a larger ad for Twilfit & Tattings, this week, in the hopes that the shop will draw wealthy patrons who need ensembles for the next big Ministry to-do. She does not dare think back to Those Days, when she had barely been hired, when business (and commission, therefore; a shopgirl's bread and butter) had been _terrible_, when no one's mind had been on luxuries. But she is glad, nonetheless. Business is booming, and in a direct correlation, people are forgetting. Good, for both.

Her grandfather's portrait used to tell her that the days after the Second World War, just after Grindelwald's defeat, were just the same: everyone tiptoed, unsure of the footing, unsure just what form the new world order was going to take, certain, even so, that it would never be the same. But, as his portrait had predicted, and as she came to see, things changed: that new generation, drunk on victory, had launched itself painfully, with the sound of old chains ripping, into that new world order. Celebrities were made (Dumbledore for his generation, Harry Potter and co. for hers), and galleons were plentiful, and the newly emancipated generation stopped at nothing as it sought pleasures of every kind in the postwar era.

Sometimes, she likes nothing more than to scoff at her luck of the draw. Today, though, it isn't necessary. It is rubbed in her face, over and over, until she is raw, until she is forced to retreat into the storage room and sit on a throne of boxes full of wrapping paper and mannequin parts, head in hands, rubbing her temples until they stop pounding.

First, Hermione Granger-Weasley, clearly on her lunch break and looking harassed. Pansy, who is not entirely unconnected, knows that the Weasley wife is the one behind the Ministry event, and she is expected to give a speech on the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures' new policies toward fairness and equality for sentient non-humans. It is expected to have the backing of all the Important People, but Pansy also knows that most of the attendees who aren't politicos or bureaucrats are going because it's Potter's first post-divorce social appearance.

How things have changed! Weasley wears a tweed suit, in honour of the autumnal shift, though Pansy would have waited until October, at least. The robes that she wears atop the suit are skimming and elegant, and thank goodness, because she still has a few pounds of baby weight to lose, Pansy thinks nastily. Her hair is a little messy, and she wears the comfortably harassed expression Pansy has come to recognise as the New Mother look. Micromanager, she scoffs quietly to herself, and sends a subordinate to tend to the former Gryffindor. She watches from the relative safety of the other side of the shop, mostly obscured by a display of cravats and a tall decorative plant that hums a soft melody, and Hermione Granger-Weasley pays her no mind.

Luckily, she isn't expected to tend to customers, unless it's one of the Very Important Patrons that Mr Twilfit courts. From a discreet distance, she watches as Weasley vacillates between a deep, midnight blue set of dress robes, with a little bit of frill and flair at the cuffs, neckline, and hem, every bit of which will complement her hair and skin tone in a stunning way, and a more sedate set of grey robes, which emphasize dignity at the expense of youth and beauty. Weasley goes for the grey, which doesn't surprise Pansy, and she thins her lips at the shopgirl, Marina, a young, vapid witch of Italian extraction. The silly girl isn't aware, or doesn't seem to care, that no matter how bothersome the patrons are, what they wear makes a statement on the shop, and the ability of the shopgirls to match the witch or wizard with flattering attire.

Some petty part of herself overwhelms her good judgment, and permits Hermione Granger-Weasley to exit the shop, a parcel with the grey robes and matching accessories tucked beneath her arm.

Afterward, Ginny Potter, who, she has heard, clings like a limpet to that surname. She is tall and willowy and toned, too like her brothers in the face for Pansy's comfort, too full of herself by half, and Pansy can't stand the sight of the arrogant tilt of her head, as she saunters in and catches sight of Pansy. Pansy's lips curl into a grimace of a smile, and she turns away before she has the opportunity to say something ugly.

Not very well done, her mother's voice gently admonishes.

Ginny Potter, mother of Harry Potter's precious three brats, picks a set of dress robes just the colour of her ex-husband's eyes, and sashays from the door with all the grace of the Quidditch player she used to be.

It goes from bad to worse when Astoria Malfoy enters, however, and beelines for Pansy, who has been dawdling over the cravat display. "Pansy!" she beams, her bright-lipped mouth sweet as a fresh-picked summer strawberry, neon against the white of her skin, comfortable in contrast to her dark curls. Pansy believes Astoria always looks just a little too perfect, a little too manicured, a little too close to an anxiety attack, and not for the first time, she is overwhelmingly glad she is not Mrs Malfoy. As it happens, her only title in that department is Mr Malfoy's mistress, but wild hippogriffs won't pull that information from her, and she smiles the smile of the long-suffering.

"I'm so glad you're working today," Astoria says, with that bubbling enthusiasm that is simultaneously infectious and annoying as all hell. She pauses, and manages to restrain herself, and adds solicitously, "But you're invaluable to Mr Twilfit, he told me so, himself, and so it's no wonder you're here as much as you are." Besides needing gold to feed myself, Pansy adds wordlessly, eyes darting for an escape, but she comes up with nothing.

"Welcome, Mrs Malfoy," she returns, not without a warning tone; she is on Mr Twilfit's time, after all, and can't afford to be chummy with the Very Important Patrons. Astoria's face falters. Pansy feels as though she has kicked a kitten down a flight of stairs, but plows on, determined to suffer no more. Gryffindors everywhere would be proud, she is certain. "It's so wonderful to see you. If you like, I'll just fetch Mr Twilfit."

"No." Astoria is all fluttering haste; the tall pile of curls that drapes over her shoulders, which casts a dignified shadow on her smooth brow, is at odds with all that frenetic energy. She is tall, and tiny, and only a few months delivered of a healthy, blond baby boy. Life is unfair, and it echoes inside Pansy's head as an old adage, words to live by, advice to take, rather than a petulant statement she'd have made many years ago.

"No, I want you to help me," she says brightly, and Pansy thinks, right over a cliff, and leads her to the latest display of dress robes, made for late summer and early autumn. The colours are predictable: deep reds and violent purples and that particular black hue that sometimes passes for blue. "I know Draco's planning to wear something in dark blue, and I don't want to be matchy-matchy, so many couples do that, but we need something to show _unity_, after all, since Scorpius has just been born, and I just... Oh, this is the one!" she cries, and lovingly brushes her knuckles over a startling cerulean set. "Blue," she prattles, "but not the blue Draco's wearing, I think it'll do just fine..."

Just fine, Pansy thinks acidly. In her heyday, she never would have deigned to set foot in Twilfit & Tattings, though she knows Mrs Malfoy the elder still graces the shop with her patronage, upon occasion, when it is beneficial for the Malfoy matriarch to be seen shopping among the rabble. (With those Malfoys, everything is politics.) Pansy's mother had barely been convinced to give patronage to Madam Malkin's shop, in order to purchase her daughter's school robes. The late Mrs Parkinson, who had attended Beauxbatons, would rather have died than shown her face in a clothing emporium which touted ready-to-wear styles that needed only a few restitching spells to size them properly. Paris was the place to shop, in Pansy's youth, and she recalls the floral sachets which accompanied every velvet-wrapped package, the servers in their old-fashioned coattails who brought champagne and _hors d'œuvres _to all the patrons, the sleek dark cap of her mother's bobbed hair, her father's good-natured grumble as he examined the bill…

Surely Astoria knows, or guesses, Pansy's opinion on her dress, her deportment, her attempts to woo her distant, distracted husband back to her side. Surely Astoria knows that Draco is not a faithful husband, that he is, in fact, scheduled to meet Pansy at her flat, a social visit which will very likely begin with a vigorous fuck, and only end on a round of gossip and bittersweet reminiscence. Surely, surely, Astoria is not so ignorant that she misses all the signs; Pansy knows very well how careless Draco can be, especially with other people's emotions, but Astoria is not, as the Muggles say, picking up what all the signs are putting down.

Or, perhaps Astoria does know, and is far too clever to ever say anything, cross her heart and hope to die.

—

Pansy tries not to scream, because she has neighbours who have already complained, a few times already. Instead, her teeth clamp onto his shoulder, and from the way he howls, he isn't sure whether to keep going, or to lift his hand and deliver a stinging slap to her cheek, in retribution. As it is, he compromises, slapping her across the hip so hard she feels the welts raise.

She knows for certain that, if he loved her, being this close would kill them both.

They are getting sloppy, she knows. Remembers the heady first days: him, newly married, and her, practically homeless. Staying at Malfoy Manor, before Lucius and Narcissa had retired to Calais for most of the year, returning fairly regularly for visits, subjecting themselves to prying eyes and ruthless speculation. Oddly tense lunches and teas, wherein Pansy held her breath, wished she could blurt it out to Lucius and Narcissa—_"Take me with you, I have no parents, you're the closest I've got." _The wary way Narcissa's eyes shifted between Draco and Pansy and Astoria, the exaggerated chivalry of Lucius, as he pulled the chair out for Pansy and Astoria, careful not to differentiate between the two.

The gazebo in the Malfoy gardens, all those years ago. Her robes bunched up at her hips, her panties around one ankle. Then, later, in the cavernous bathroom of the guest bedroom Pansy had occupied, suds on her breasts, water droplets beading his pale eyelashes. Careful, quiet, taking their sweet time. It felt like Hogwarts, where she and Draco had studied physical love with more fervour than they'd ever genuinely devoted to each other.

She'd needed him, depended upon him, measured the quality of the universe by the blinding whiteness of his smile, but she reckons everyone is allowed one person over whom they've made fools of themselves.

Now, ye gods, she does her best to delay the inevitable, just to spite him. Focuses on the wilting roses in the corner, resolves to put a dash of murtlap essence into the vase; cheap as it comes, it's good for perking up dead flowers, when one doesn't have the sickles to spare for replacements. Thinks about the shop, the wart on the neck of the girl who served sundaes at Florean Fortescue's, owned now by Flavius, the former proprietor's nephew.

But Draco knows her, knows that vacant expression behind the flushed cheeks, knows what she's doing. It isn't the first time she's tried this trick. He reaches between them, and ruthlessly exploits the one place he knows she can't resist, and watches, heaving chest and triumphant gaze, as she comes back to him. She protests, "Draco—Draco—_Draco_," and he chuckles, and she laughs with him, can't help it, a drowning, crazy gasp of laughter.

Her legs are flexing, her toes are curling, she's going to have a terrible cramp in her foot, but all she can think of is his hand between her legs, and the staccato rhythm as his hips bruise her, and he's closer, too, isn't he? Usually, she's already had an orgasm, and by this point, she's lazily moving against him, teasing him to his own climax, but tonight is different. She peeks from beneath her trembling eyelids, sees his eyes focused on a spot near her shoulder, his teeth clenched.

It isn't one of those orgasms which flings her into the sky, after a mind-blowing ascent. It isn't spiritual, doesn't fill her heart to bursting. Rather, it drags her through the gutter, and leaves her a trembling mess, mascara running down her cheeks, teeth chattering, for several minutes afterward.

And Draco, who can't stand mess, is up as soon as his prick's gone soft, padding on bare feet toward her shower, shoulder seeping just a little blood from the bite mark. The prat will probably use two towels, too.


	2. Chapter 2

The Nature of Suffering

Two

_I don't mean to close the door  
>But for the record my heart is sore<br>You blew through me like bullet holes  
>Left stains on my sheets and stains on my soul<em>

— CocoRosie, "Werewolf"

—

"I can't take you," Draco murmurs into his hand, a few days later. It's propping him up, elbow denting the mattress, fingers spread over his mouth. Normally, he is bleached of most colour, especially as he ages, but his lips are too pink, reddened by excessive kissing. As candlelight runs its fingers through his pale hair, it gains a golden sheen, and she snaps out of admiring it, turning her attention to him. She is propped up on the pillows, and the duvet is mostly on the floor, and his hand is petting the concave of her stomach, the slope of her hip.

"Can't take me? What—oh." She sits up on her elbows, watches him as he lounges, his feet dangling over the end of the bed. Now, he rests his head on her belly, one arm stretched out, fingers grasping at nothing. He's restless lately, she notices. Doesn't see her as often; as a new father, a modern father, he's too busy approving Astoria's new pram, new baby clothes, the colour of the nursery walls. As if they can't be changed back, with a flick of the wand. The younger Mrs Malfoy has hired an interior decorator, someone in the know about _feng shui_, she's heard.

"Well, why the bloody hell not?" she asks petulantly, after he doesn't respond.

"You bloody well know," he says, the words clipped in his blade of a mouth. "She's gone crazy since the baby was born." He pauses, and then his words rush out, a rant just waiting to be voiced, apparently. "Calls me an arse if I even leave the nursery, never mind that she's constantly out, buying new things for him, showing him off at luncheons with her friends. He's been sleeping with us since he was born, and she's been cleared by the mediwitch, so it's not like we can't get back to having—"

"God," she exhales, after a long and tense moment, and flops back onto the pillow, disrupting his lazy form, which he's draped all over her, from the neck down. His head lifts, again, and he glares at her. Wants to glare at himself, she knows; Draco hates few things more than sticking his foot in his mouth.

The last thing she wants to know is that he's still sleeping with his wife, that he _wants _to sleep with her. It's better to speculate than to know; she prefers her mind when it turns over possibilities and answers and options, hates the finality of incontrovertible truth, the stagnation that waits at the end of wondering why, who, when. It wasn't enough to get her into Ravenclaw, but it is enough to fuel her ever-living love for gossip.

Mistresses aren't supposed to mind, though. They are supposed to Be There for their lovers, Support Them without Questioning Motivations, and, of course, provide Physical and Emotional Compensation for the Love their lovers are so obviously Lacking in their Legitimate Relationships.

At least she doesn't love him. At least she is spared that final humiliation.

She breathes deeply, closes and opens her eyes, stares at the ceiling until she is calm. Feels the tickle of his hair on her stomach, as he offers an apologetic kiss to her belly button. The moron can't apologise aloud, just _once_, can he?

"I didn't mean as a couple," she says in measured tones. Tries to convey that that's the lastthing she wants. That such things as appearing in public as a _couple _are reserved for women like Astoria Malfoy, who gives Draco _nicknames_, and Hermione Granger-Weasley, who is so steadfast one can likely set one's clock by the time she takes in the shower, how many strokes of the hairbrush she employs. Who wouldn't lower herself by sleeping with a married man, unless it's her husband, that big, red oaf.

That big, red oaf, who is positively devoted to his wife. Trails after her in Diagon Alley—she's seen it—carrying her packages, never able to keep up with her brilliance, her purposeful stride. Would break his own hand raking his fingers through her mess of hair, and would do it _gladly_.

"After all," she says briskly, "you're married, and I'm not willing to rock the boat. My father's solicitor thinks he's going to wear the Ministry down, this time, that they'll unfreeze the accounts and I'll be able to move home. At this point, I can't weather a scandal." She casts a disdainful eye around her immaculate, tiny bedroom, the roses that are now past wilted and steadily falling into decay, the beat-up vanity she'd thrifted, the little closet full of clothing labels her mother would never have recognised, had she been alive, of course. He'd wanted to meet in hotels, condescending the tight fit of the double bed, the Malfoy who was used to custom beds or bust. But she'd insisted, preferring the power trysting in her teensy flat gave her.

He looks taken aback, that she mentioned the 'M' word, and she wonders if she's broken a taboo held sacred by other Other Women. Then, he gradually relaxes, and the tips of his fingers begin tracing nonsensical patterns over her knees. His head rests on her belly, and his hand drifts upward, slowly, inexorably. "I'll talk to someone," he murmurs, stroking the center of her heat, feathering his fingertips over the well-trimmed juncture of her thighs.

He thinks she just wants to go, then, get out of her cramped flat, feel like someone important. Be waited on, rather than waiting on. She'll let him think that. "Get your name on the list," he continues. "The amount of money I spend, trying to make right, pay it forward, clear the family name—they should permit me a bit of entitlement."

She suddenly realises that he does his best to avoid speaking Astoria's name in front of her. And he's never once said Scorpius's name.

She had learned the newborn Malfoy's name through the society section of the _Daily Prophet_. Just as she'd learned about their engagement, years ago.

He has stayed too long, again, but insists on having her, again. This time, it's with one of her legs over his shoulder, as he murmurs her name like a mantra, to the tune of that special rhythm they always find together, nearly breaking her in half.

Like he does.

—

He likes to play with the flesh of her thighs, and the part of her belly she's always dissatisfied with, that extra couple of pounds she can never lose, even if she skips lunch. Likes to pet them, nibble them, they are his favourite parts of her, her worst places. She cannot understand why.

She has better parts, and after he leaves, after she has showered for the second, third, fourth time that day, trying to erase his cologne, she gauges them. Admires them, runs her hands over them. Her breasts are of average size, but well-shaped, with a good silhouette. Her hips flare in the right places, her calves are trim, her ankles are neat. She has always liked her forearms, and her wrists and hands are delicate, like her mother's. Her shoulders are her father's, well-defined, prone toward stiffening even when she isn't angry, perhaps a little wide but not unattractively so. They just make her look tough, Draco had said, sometime at Hogwarts; she can't remember when, exactly.

She has foregone the bob she had in those days, mimicking the haircut of her mother, who'd moved to Paris after the separation. She'd had it trimmed at every visit, winter hols and summer, by an expert Muggle hairstylist in an expensive Parisian salon, something she wouldn't have dreamed of telling her father. Had goggled at the magazines, the strange, revealing things the women wore, feeling so treacherous for thinking wizarding fashion wouldn't have gone amiss if it took a few cues from those publications.

Now, she lifts her hands and runs them through her hair, very long, just brushing the small of her back, styled in charming curls, thanks to a handy spell Daphne Greengrass had taught her a couple of years ago. It's thick, and lustrous, and her one true vanity, these days, at least. Luckily, it is also the least expensive. She trims it herself, with the No-Slip, Even-Every-Time haircutting shears she'd gotten on discount.

"This is me," she says, and watches her reflection repeat the words, staring back at her, wide-eyed and unsure. Hmph; she'd have liked to sound more sure of herself. Again, "This is who I am." Stares her reflection down, now. Rather than looking uncertain, she just appears anxious to believe herself, to believe in herself.

"Well, fuck you, too," she mutters, and there, that's it. Narrowed gaze, a darker, less pure shade of grey than Draco's, a sardonic twist of her mouth. She likes her lips, even if they tend toward dryness, and has even made peace with her nose, the same one that ran with snot and self-pity every time she wound up in the girls' loo, back at Hogwarts, after someone called her 'pug.' She wrinkles that same nose at her reflection, and stands up straighter, appraising her imperfections, nose excepted, of course.

Posture—terrible, belly—source of constant anxiety, skin—too pale. Her black hair, the only things she inherited from her mother besides the wrists and the hands and the eyes; her pale skin, and the dark circles under her eyes; all these things contrive to wash her out, make her look just as exhausted as she feels. Dammit, she's got to look smashing if she's actually going to go to that stupid Ministry thing and show Draco what he's missing. She's been stress-eating, again, and promises to take an extra walk around Diagon Alley, tomorrow at lunch, to drink more water. More water, more cigarettes, less food: the French diet, just like she learned from _maman_.

But, gods, it's the only skin she's got. And she hopes, above and beyond hope, that if Draco comes through, she can square her strong shoulders, lift her snub nose into the air, and pretend her dress robes are brand new, too.

At this point, even Madam Malkin's is an option.

—

But it isn't, and she knows it, and that's what finds her in one of the many secondhand shops that litters the periphery of Diagon Alley like cigarette butts and noisy, rude pedestrians litter the Muggle sidewalks, a world and a short walk away. At least she has company, and at least Daphne has the good sense to dress down for the occasion. What that means is that her hair's curled faintly—that same spell, an oldie but goodie—and her mascara is flawless and her shoes, courtesy of Adrian Pucey, her on-again, off-again boyfriend, are only a _few dozen _galleons more than Pansy's usual biweekly paycheque.

"Well, this is—promising—" Daphne starts, lifting the sleeve of a faded key lime green bathrobe. "'Once owned by Cornelius Fudge.' Well, I can believe it." She moves on, toward the crooked sign proclaiming _Dress Robes!_, and proclaims, with buckets of false cheer, "Well, with optimistic advertisements like that…"

"What's optimistic about this situation?" Pansy moans, trudging after her. She's been on her feet all day, thanks to the number of patrons who've darkened Twilfit's doors, wives of minor bureaucratic tyrants and even some husbands, all aiming for new robes for the Ministry do. Daphne's already bought her robes, gorgeous sleeveless burgundy batiste with a scalloped lace shrug, sewn by hand by a master Italian clothier who catered to witches with a penchant for flamboyant clothing. It was Muggle-inspired, and Pansy reckons Daphne knows she is going to start a few tongues wagging, especially the old society biddies who flock to this kind of event.

"You have your health," Daphne answers pragmatically, and then gasps in horror, gawking at a chintz (chintz!) set of dress robes. "_What_ is that?"

Pansy shakes her head, and starts at one end of the poorly organised display. She riffles through it efficiently, discarding the 17th century court dress, complete with panniers, the Muggle peignoir with hopelessly tattered hem, a vomitously pink dress that reminds Pansy, uncomfortably, of the Yule Ball in her fourth year at Hogwarts. "I don't know," she mutters _sotto voce_, talking mostly to herself. "Maybe I'll just skip it."

Daphne makes an _mmm_ sound, deep and disapproving, in the back of her throat. "Like you missed my last cocktail party. I told you I'd _lend _you the robes, you know, it isn't charity, Pansy—"

"—but it feels like it," Pansy finishes quickly, before Daphne has an opportunity. "Come _on_, there's nothing worse than wearing your friend's second-best dress robes, unless it's wearing your friend's second-best dress robes' matching shoes, too. As a _loan_. You'd have to toss the lot of it after, you know. Can't be seen wearing the same thing twice, even if I was the one who wore it first."

"Silly bint," Daphne croons affectionately, and pats Pansy's head, as if she's an adorable lap dog, or a particularly clever five-year-old. "Still worried about what Draco will think. I can tell. He wouldn't go through the trouble of _asking for a party invite_ for just anyone." Her tone is almost academic, it's so neutral. She acts as if she isn't speaking about her brother-in-law, the father of her nephew.

Pansy shakes her head, and sneezes, as she catches hold of a greatcoat holding a few years of accumulated dust. "Perish the thought. We've got to get out of here. I can't take it. I'm not going."

Daphne straightens her shoulders, and eyes her longtime friend. "You're going. God, you're dumb." Irritated, she flicks through several clothing wracks, mouth pulled into a moue of distaste. "For someone so clever, I mean."

Pansy gives a noncommittal pshaw, and pauses, drifting back to the Muggle peignoir. Pulls it out, holds it up to the dubious light, eyes it critically. Silk georgette, lace at the hem and sleeves in terrible condition, and it needs a bit of resuscitation and a good, old-fashioned cleaning, but still…

Daphne titters. "That's a Muggle nightgown, isn't it," she manages, in the same tone she uses for Neville Longbottom's grandmother's bird hat. The old woman will doubtless make an appearance at the Ministry party, now that her grandson's an IBP—Important Because of Potter.

"Not that I have anything against it being Muggle, of course," Daphne adds solicitously, after a thoughtful pause. "I condescend anyone who doesn't sleep _au naturel_. Prudes, all. Regardless, it has a certain—" She tries to stifle a laugh, fails, titters. Other patrons look in their direction, look away quickly. It's though they have _Death Eater!_ branded on their foreheads, even after all these years.

Well, they're probably looking at Daphne, who leads a rather public lifestyle: her rocky relationship with Adrian Pucey, her Gringotts account full of galleons, her father's job at the ministry. Papa Greengrass had been a Ravenclaw, she's heard, and it's Mama Greengrass who's got all the darker connections, but you can't stop people from thinking what they will.

Pansy hasn't been high-profile since her Hogwarts years. Except for her legal troubles with the Ministry. And the condescending patrons of Twilfit & Tattings. But one can hardly call those prestigious gossip points.

Not that she gives a sodding damn, oh no.

She gives Daphne her very best blood-curdling glare. "It has potential," she says, defensive. "Picture this: completely redo the hem and the lace at the sleeves, downsize the ruffles around the neck. It's not quite opaque, so white tulle and silk beneath it, something more elegant than just a showy slip. Then, a wide length of black silk, banded around the middle, which drapes gracefully and hopefully slims my figure to nothing."

Daphne pauses, and her eyes narrow as she considers the dress. "Let me loan you a few pearls, and promise you'll let me pick out your lingerie. I bet you're wearing that terrible cotton thing, that you got at Madame Malkin's on clearance."

Oh, how the might have fallen, Pansy thinks, but she doesn't have the conscientiousness to blush, or to act discomfited, by the shabby truth. "Small price to pay, to get you to shut up." Pansy nudges Daphne with her elbow, and they make their way to the front of the store, to the bored teenager at the register, whispering like schoolgirls.


	3. Chapter 3

The Nature of Suffering

Three

_I'm not a stranger  
><em>_No, I am yours  
><em>— Plumb, "Cut"

—

The air outside is mild, with a promise of rain for tomorrow. Cool as it has been, the temperature is likely to plummet during the Ministry party. She longs for the furs that are hers by right, the furs in her mother's abandoned closet at her father's empty manor. With no house elves to cast moth-repellant and anti-dust spells, no doubt they have fallen into a sorry state. She'll be glad for the cloak Mr Twilfit has permitted her to borrow, bless him.

The bathroom window, tiny and high, gapes onto the street. Carried in on an autumn breeze are snippets of conversation, the smells of crowded city living, the yowls of hungry strays. She lifts her leg from the bathwater, flexes her toes, submerges her foot again. Trails a hand through the toasty water, rests the other along the edge of the big, claw-footed brass tub. It is a good thing that Pansy has a taste for antiques, as the plumbing doesn't even self-heat.

A simple spell would reheat the bathwater, of course, but the cooling water reminds her that she has been in for too long. Water sloshes, just a bit, over the gently sloped rim, as she stands and reaches for a towel, thin and just on the acceptable side of ragged. She would not have clothed a house elf in such a piece of fabric, but it is big and serves her current need. She towels off and eyes herself critically in the mirror, which wisely stays silent.

Her dress is hanging in her bedroom, but she is not yet ready for it. To the bedroom she goes, regardless, eyeing the messy sheets. Succumbs to the temptation, and crawls onto the bed, pulling the duvet to her chin. There is something delightful about damp hair, bath-flushed skin, and an unmade bed that welcomes one with open arms. She closes her eyes, and succumbs to her imagination.

In front of everyone, he deigns to dance with the ex-heiress, the laughingstock of all washed-up former Slytherins. His wife watches from the sidelines, perhaps oblivious, perhaps not, but who cares? No one is looking at _her,_ the upstart from a second-rate lineage. He whirls her around the ballroom floor, whispers that he'll help her reclaim her birthright. That he wants _her,_ Pansy Parkinson, mewling infant son and opulently crass wife be damned. He parades her around the parquet floor like a strutting peacock. His wife leaves, her face a ruin of mascara-laden tears.

They are gorgeous together, her sleek darkness a compliment to his too-blonde radiance. Their heads, leaning together, black and platinum. Whispers swirl around the edges of the crowd like the cool autumn breeze that stirs the leaves outside.

A soft laugh, all breath and self-derision, brings her back to reality. She shakes her head, still chuckling, and rises from the bed. It does not do to dwell on dreams, she counsels herself sagely, as she slides onto the seat in front of her battered vanity.

She feels more like herself, a short time later, once all the creams and cosmetics and potions have been applied, once she's charmed her hair into an elegant pile atop her head, permitted a few wayward strands their freedom. Naked, still, she slides from her perch and slinks to the closet, where her dress robes hang in splendour against the starkness of her ordinary wardrobe. They drape elegantly, even on the padded silk hanger she filched from work, and she runs a reverent hand over the lacework.

Nothing matches the feeling of silk sliding over smooth flesh. The white organza bodice with matching silk skirt whispers against the silk georgette. She watches herself in the mirror, breath held, as she casts a charm to fasten the buttons at the back of her neck. The white underdress murmurs softly against her ankles, the black lace falls just so at her elbows, the neckline compliments her collarbones. Fastening Daphne's pearls in her ears and around her neck, sliding Daphne's gloves into place on her perfumed arms, she breathes a sigh of relief.

She will make it through this night, after all. She will prove, to Draco Malfoy and everyone else, that she can stand among them. That she matters.

—

They are a study in complementary contrasts, his pale head bent toward her dark, his gentle courtesy, her charming acceptance which seems to say, _It is my due_. They whirl around the ballroom, stand shoulder-to-shoulder, promenade around the periphery, make pleasantries. Beside him, she glimmers like a star: deep blue robes, diamonds in her ears, at her neck, around her wrists. A none-too-subtle diamond spray, tucked amidst her pleasantly tumbled curls.

People alternately find her exuberance alarming and endearing. Pansy observes these reactions from her corner of the crowded ballroom, leaning against a pillar to relieve the pressure of her shoes, which give her all the grace of an inebriated hippogriff. She huffs to herself. Leave it to Draco to flaunt his gallantry in front of the most important members of society, as his neglected mistress watches from the shadows.

Reluctantly she drags her eyes from the lustrous couple. Granger is still flushed from her speech, which had garnered a standing ovation only from guests who, of course, did not keep house elves. Her weasel husband is flushed from drink. He'd been running his big hands through his hair, a nervous tic, perhaps, all during his wife's speech, and she's clucking at him in a corner, smoothing his flaming haystack of hair with no-nonsense hands. She's speaking to him in low tones, and Pansy imagines she can see the fine stress lines around the former Gryffindor's eyes. After a second, Weasley responds with a crooked grin, murmurs something in return, and kisses her on the forehead. Her eyes close, and she leans against him.

Pansy looks away, so full of hatred that for a moment she can't breathe.

Elsewhere, Daphne whirls around the floor with the devastatingly attractive Adrian Pucey. They are a better matched set than Draco and Astoria, even: elegantly fitted robes, a boutonnière pinned to the front of his, the same colour as her eyes. Daphne knows how to do public relations. She gazes at Adrian through her lashes, gently rests her fingers against his bicep as they walk. The society page of the _Daily Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly _will have nothing but praise for her hair, her jewellery, her dainty heeled slippers.

After a while, she releases Adrian with a kiss to the cheek, and he watches her with an amused tilt of the head as she manoeuvers through the crowd to Pansy. "What are you doing?" Daphne hisses through a smile, for the cameras' sake, Pansy is sure. "I didn't loan you my underthings so that you could lurk in the corner and mope about Draco."

"Gods above, I shouldn't have come," Pansy murmurs, more to herself than to Daphne, and snags a champagne flute from a floating tray which has been lingering nearby, tempting her with its wares. It drifts away, job done, and she drinks deeply.

"That makesh two of ush," rumbles a drink-roughened voice from the other side of the pillar. "Yer not lookin' in bad form tonight, Parkinshon. I wouldn't have recognished you, if it hadn't been for the noshe."

The voice is familiar, but it isn't until she sees Harry Potter leaning against the pillar, eyes heavy, holding a tumbler of something stronger than champagne, that she connects voice to body. Potter isn't _himself_, exactly—his years as an Auror have refined him, much as she's loath to admit it, and he's wearing robes that do him credit, much as she's loath to admit _that_, too—but she sees the scar on his brow, through his bramble of a fringe. Immediately she opens her mouth, something witty and acerbic, fueled by champagne, right on the tip of her tongue, but Daphne interjects.

"That's my cue," she says hastily. Leaning forward, she whispers into Pansy's ear, "Don't get into too much trouble. I wouldn't miss a row between you and Potter for the world, but really, we're not in school, anymore—"

"Oh, shove off," Pansy replies, not without some small trace of affection. Daphne obliges her, and she turns toward Potter, surprised at the way her lack of coordination has betrayed her. How many glasses of champagne has she had? Not nearly as many as Potter, from the looks of it.

"Lurking in the shadows, Scarhead? Not at all like you, but then again, the Great Hero is a divorcé—sets a bad example for all of us, doesn't it?" Pansy smiles, but reconsiders her victory, as Potter's expression doesn't change. No, that isn't nearly cutting enough, not for that supercilious little shite. "She's driven you to drinking, has she, the fairest weasel of them all? I've always heard that redheads are bad luck—let's take your dearly departed mother as an example—"

"Oh, please." Potter dismisses her jibes; doubtless the martyr has come up with better material with which to torture himself. She's at her weakest, right now, with Draco parading his comeback into society like the peacocks that strut around his estate, his glittering wife on his arm. She can, without self-remorse, admit to herself that causing anyone pain will lighten her burden; but causing _Harry Potter _pain is an opportunity too good to pass up. She resolves to try harder, but given his next return, it's difficult. "Surprished you could get an invita— an inv— an in-vi-tation," he pronounces carefully, "to thish shindig. Didn't think you were shtill relevant, Parkinshon."

She's silent for a moment. It cuts deeper than it should, but given its accuracy, she bears up under his wounding words quite well. "You'd know all about relevancy, wouldn't you, Potter? Playing Auror is the best you can come up with? Let's hope another Dark Lord comes along, then you'll _really_ have something to do."

"You'd have fed me to him, that night," he mutters sulkily, and swallows a gulp of whatever it is he's drinking—whisky, from the smell of it. Pansy's lips curl in distaste, but she freezes as his eyes, behind their stupid round spectacles, lower to her mouth. Oh, now _that's _beyond the pale. Before he can slur another word, she shoves past him, through the French doors, into the garden. It's blissfully quiet, and cooler than the crowded ballroom. She takes in a lungful of air not saturated by perfumes and the scent of booze—but, speaking of which, he's followed her.

"I wasn't done with you, Parkinshon," he says, as though, by walking away, she's done him a great disservice.

"Christ," she mutters under her breath, and finishes her champagne. There's no convenient floating tray nearby, and so she holds the glass by its delicate stem, turning, wondering if she'd be able to nail him between the eyes at this distance. "Listen, Potter, I'm in no mood—"

"Moping after Draco doeshn't suit you," he says, approaching cautiously—he must've seen the speculative look in her eyes. He sees the almost immediate flair of temper, and backtracks, holding up one hand in a peaceable gesture. "Shay the word, and we'll go shomewhere elshe—this place ishn't doing either of ush any favorsh."

What has her life come to, Pansy bemoans silently, that Astoria _Greengrass_ has the spotlight and _she's _stuck outside, badgered by a sodden drunk Harry Potter? "Please," she scoffs. "I'm not quite _that _desperate." She allows herself a moment to revel in his injured expression, and then pushes past him, bound for the door, aiming to collect her borrowed cloak and nurse her wounded pride at home, with a sympathetic Mnemosyne and a bottle of half-decent wine.

What she doesn't expect is the hand, callused and large and unlike any she's felt before, that wraps around her upper arm and turns her around, and the whisky-flavoured lips that open hers beneath them.


	4. Chapter 4

The Nature of Suffering

Four

_Doomed from the start  
><em>_We met with a goodbye kiss_

— Lana Del Rey, "Goodbye Kiss"

—

Mnemosyne's plaintive meows drag her, unwilling, into consciousness. Pansy exhales a half-hearted curse into her pillow before lifting her head. Light pours through the window and pools on the bed, which is a right mess. She pushes herself from the duvet's cloying heat, expecting a headache and a bout of hangover-induced nausea, but neither of those things comes. A muffled groan emanates from beneath the duvet on the other side of the bed, and she freezes, closes her eyes, and waits.

Not just a nightmare, then.

She sees his glasses, hanging precariously from the edge of the nightstand. His robes are puddled just inside the bedroom door. His pants are slung over the edge of her battered vanity table, and his shirt rests unobtrusively beneath them. Of her lovely gown, that delicate piece of craftsmanship, there is no sign. If it's damaged, she vows, she'll kill him.

She doesn't dare lift the duvet to confirm what her body knows is true.

He's on the verge of waking, and she knows she may not have an opportunity, so she surveys him, while she still has time. The boy had never looked like much, with his inferior-quality glasses and his indifferent sense of style—and, if anything he'd always looked a bit underfed, incapable of shouldering the burdens life had heaped upon him. The man, though, is something else. Still thin, but taller, broader, all taut shoulders and capable-looking arms. She spends a few moments searching for the scar amid his appallingly disheveled fringe, and after failing, looks away, irritated.

Mnemosyne eyes her balefully from the floor. Pansy shakes the morning-after haze from her mind, and slips quietly from the bed, so as not to disturb Potter, who's rolled onto his stomach with an arm flung out.

The floor is cold under her bare feet as she pads into the kitchen, knotting a dressing gown about her otherwise naked body. Yawning, she reaches into the cabinet and roots around until she finds a tin of Mnemosyne's favourite—salmon—and pours it into a bowl. The spoiled furball tucks in, purring, grey tail swaying contentedly. She kneels on the floor, one arm on the counter to balance herself, and strokes Mnemosyne's back, reluctant to return to the bedroom, suddenly rather shy.

"You have a cat?"

She stands quickly, legs tangling in the dressing gown, and almost trips. Righting herself, she glares. He stands in the hallway, one bare shoulder leaned against the wall. He's wearing pants; at least he has the sense to cover up when wandering about an unfamiliar flat. A pile of clothes, presumably his shirt and dress robes, are draped over his shoulder.

"No, Potter, I don't have a cat," she snarks, rolling her eyes to herself. "I haven't the faintest idea how she got in." Her hands flutter; she needs something to keep them busy, and the sight of his bare chest is distracting. She reaches for the kettle, fills it with water, sets it on the stove.

When she turns, she catches him rolling his eyes. A childish gesture, she thinks to herself, choosing to ignore her similar response from moments before. It's just that Gryffindors bring out the worst in her, always have, always will. She looks down, and sees that Mnemosyne has finished her breakfast, and has now wandered toward Potter, sniffing the hem of his trousers. Pansy goes about pulling down a cup and saucer. On second thought, she grabs another set—can't be _too _rude. _She _wasn't raised in a barn, or a nest of Weasleys. He laughs softly, suddenly, and she turns to see that Mnemosyne, who hates most men and especially Draco, has rolled onto her back, paws in the air, batting playfully at Potter's fingers as he strokes her. She's _purring_.

"The little tramp," she mutters, feeling nettled all of a sudden.

The kettle, a battered self-heating variety that she'd picked up for nearly nothing at the secondhand knick-knack shop, whistles cheerfully but out-of-tune, some new Celestina Warbeck that it had likely heard on Mrs Next Door's wireless, which usually sits in an open window of a morning. Potter's still petting the cat when she takes the tea and cups over to the table, cluttered with old issues of _Witch Weekly_ and the _Prophet_. She sits and pours, and he slides effortlessly into the seat across from her.

She flushes deeply and pours. It seems too _natural_, and she ought to feel far more disgusted than she does. He takes his tea just like she does, she learns—steaming hot and without any additives.

"Your kind never let down their defences, do they," he says after a moment, studying her intently.

"Don't count on it," she snaps back immediately, and then flushes.

"Wasn't going to." His tone is cheery as he picks up the cup and takes a healthy drink. It's so far from Draco's polished mannerisms that she blinks rapidly, realizing Potter's kept speaking and that she's missed most of it. "—kind of you, not to poison it—"

"Wait, what?" she asks, and then rephrases, with a touch more civility, "I beg your pardon?"

"The _tea_, Parkinson," Potter responds, with exaggerated patience. "I was thanking you for the tea."

Subdued, Pansy lowers her chin. "Oh, right." She slides from her seat and takes her teacup and saucer to the sink, busying herself with emptying the unfinished tea, anything to break their close proximity. It's too new, she realizes, too unexpected and preposterous, even—Harry Potter having tea at her beaten old table after a rip-roaring one-night stand. She can't think about last night but she can't _not _think about it. She's about half a second from telling him to leave when she feels the warmth of his body pressed against her back, and his hands are on hers, pulling them from the sudsy sink, and his mouth is hot in the crook of her neck.

"Don't you… don't you have something to do elsewhere?" she asks, embarrassed by her voice, which comes out weak and high.

He chuckles into the hollow of her collarbone, ignoring her pitiful question. His lips move up and he kisses behind her ear, nips at her earlobe. She closes her eyes tightly against the harsh morning light pouring in from the window over the sink and resists, barely, pushing her hips back against him.

"It's a pity that I have to wait until your back is turned to get this close," he continues. His hands undo the sash of her dressing gown, and as the cool air of morning washes over her heated flesh, she whimpers. Her breasts fill his hands; he caresses her softly, and then, as if he's handling something dangerous, turns her to face him.

They spend the morning in bed, and she spends the rest of the day at Twilfit & Tattings, where customers' words go in one ear and out the other, and where not even the pricking of her pride can rouse her from her thoughts.

On her way home, that afternoon, she picks up a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ from the corner store. On the front page, Hermione Granger-Weasley delivers her speech, the passion in her expression conveyed even through the grainy moving image. She's curious to see if reports of the gala include any mention of her, or Draco and Astoria, or even Potter, though by this point in the day she's irritated beyond belief that she's fixated for so long. Nevermind that he spent the morning at her flat, nevermind that he spent the rest of the day running through her mind.

When Pansy gets home, she takes one look at her meagre pantry and decides on breakfast-for-dinner, the cheapest and easiest route. She sets the teapot on the stove, gets the food going, and catches another glimpse at the front cover. Granger's picture is the largest one, but there are others; Ministry folk, Quidditch stars, even a picture of the Golden Trio, two-thirds of which are cuddled up to themselves, the redheaded lout of a Weasley giving his know-it-all wife a kiss on the cheek as she beams happily at the camera. Potter stands beside them, looking a bit weighed down beneath the arm Weasley has slung around his neck, but looking relaxed for all that. Perhaps he's grown used to the scrutiny his life will probably garner. She peers closer, and guesses that at the time of the picture, he wasn't quite as sloshed as he would be, later in the evening. She smirks to herself.

After the tea kettle has belted out an off-key rendition of "God Save the Queen," to which she can only shake her head and resolve to get a new(er) tea kettle in the near future, she takes her plate and her tea and settles at the table amid the discarded magazines and newspapers. The fresh edition of the _Prophet_ she takes into one hand and, eating with the other, scours the front page for anything interesting.

It's a very politically correct take on the new policies spearheaded by Granger, noting the effort toward renaming the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Seems that some of them don't take too kindly to being called "creatures." Pansy hmmphs and continues reading, spooning eggs into her mouth, ignoring the voice in the back of her head, the one that sounds suspiciously like her mother, chiding her for putting her elbows on the table. It isn't as though anyone is here to judge her dinner etiquette—and it isn't as though this shabby flat really deserves fine manners, anyway.

She swallows a mouthful of tea and turns through the newspaper, rattling it into place as she settles on the society pages. Here the story is much the same, albeit with a bit more attention placed on more important issues, like what guests of the gala were wearing. There is a picture of Granger's dress robes, taken at a flattering angle as the former Gryffindor delivers the end of her speech to rousing applause. Astoria's ensemble receives gushing praise, and Twilfit & Tattings is mentioned more than once, in glowing terms. Business will be good, she predicts, and that can only mean positive things for herself. Perhaps she'll ask for a raise…

As she leafs through the rest of the newspaper, ego somewhat mollified by the glowing reviews of the dress robes_ she _had picked out for Twilfit patrons, she pauses over Rita Skeeter's gossip column.

There, in an image blurred by the soft haze of moonlight and the thick foliage, as though the camera were peeking through the rose bushes just outside the ballroom, she sees her lovely dress, the delicate black lace of the sleeves crushed in the rough grip of a sodding-drunk Harry Potter. Her face, thank heavens, is obscured by his broad shoulders as he leans in to kiss her. The headline above the picture reads, _**Harry Potter's rebound? Wizarding hero seen snogging mystery witch at Ministry do!**_

The low, ragged snarl of rage that emanates from her causes Mnemosyne to look up from where she's grooming herself atop the kitchen counter, tail poofed up to about twice its size. The cat eyes her mistress warily as Pansy balls up the newspaper and hurls it toward the lit fireplace, where it bounces harmlessly off the mantel and rests beside a shoe.

Burying her face in her hands, she rests her forehead on the table and moans, "The first publicity I've gotten in years, and they can't even get my name, _and_ I'm snogging Potter. Bloody hell."


End file.
